<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Twelfth Knight by Lily_Labyrinth</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24978796">Twelfth Knight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily_Labyrinth/pseuds/Lily_Labyrinth'>Lily_Labyrinth</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Dean Winchester, Destiel - Freeform, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Protective Dean Winchester, Romance, Romantic Fluff, SPN - Freeform, Sexual Tension, Smut, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:33:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,481</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24978796</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily_Labyrinth/pseuds/Lily_Labyrinth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Each year, Castiel watches as a knight approaches his tower intent on killing the monster inside. Each year, he is relieved when they fail. It's a matter of survival, because Castiel is an angel of the Lord: the most terrifying monster there is. When another knight rides onto the horizon, Cas assumes it'll end no differently, but plans go awry when Dean Winchester, the twelfth knight, manages to enter the tower.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel &amp; Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>115</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. When Angels are Monsters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The angel Castiel was lounging on the windowsill when the twelfth knight broached the hill. Dusk had turned the valley beneath the tower an ashen grey, but the light of sunset gleamed off newly polished armour. It was this that roused Cas from his stupor. With a leather-bound book half-open on his lap, he squinted at the faraway forest path where the figure was beginning his journey. It was August, and so, naturally, another love-blind fool had come to the tower to prove his worth.</p><p>He had come to kill the monster.</p><p>Which meant he had come to kill Cas.</p><p>“<em>Gabriel</em>,” Cas hissed, smacking a wing against the window in his haste. In the single tower room, one of his many siblings was sprawled across the bed staring at the ceiling.</p><p>“<em>Gabriel</em>," Cas repeated. "There’s a knight.”</p><p>Gabriel, who was infrequently referred to as Gabe or “you bastard,” blinked at him. He had managed to get himself stunningly drunk at a tavern the night before and was still nursing the after-effects. There were small bits of parchment in his brown locks and his feathers, and he smelt as if he’d spent several days in a river of ale. It seemed he had retreated to Cas’ tower to nurse his wounds and complain to someone unable to escape. It was hardly surprising when Gabe asked,</p><p>“Want to take bets on how he’ll die?” </p><p>Cas frowned anyway. “You’re speaking to the wrong crowd.”</p><p>Last year, when the eleventh knight had ridden over the horizon on a white steed, his other siblings had come from across the Isles to crowd the tower window, yelling and hooting with glee.</p><p>“I bet he’ll die by crows,” Raphael had snickered.</p><p>“Puh!” Zachariah had said, “I’ll wager he falls into the marsh spirits. ”</p><p>In the end, none of them had been correct. A giant serpent had swallowed the knight and retreated into a fissure in the mountains. It had taken Cas a week to banish the man’s terrified hazel eyes from his mind.</p><p>It wasn’t as if the knights were skill-less. It was just that their sharp swords and sharper cheekbones were a scarce match against his father’s enchantments. They had been crafted from old magic and smelt of it too: dust and old bones and embers at night. He had watched as his father whispered the first spells. Watched as the tower twisted from the earth like a ragged claw and the forest shook and rattled as magik seeped into its roots. When it was done, his father had knelt at eye-level with twelve-year-old Cas. His mouth was tight-lipped when he spoke, as if he were trying to speak the words into being like one of his spells.</p><p>“This is where you’ll be safe,” he had said. “Stay within its walls and all the woes of the world will not harm you.”</p><p>Cas didn’t ask why it was only he that was locked away when his brothers and sisters were free to roam the Isles to terrorise fishermen and farmers' wives. It wasn’t a child’s place to question their father, and so he stayed quiet, obedient and just a little angry. He had his own magic, of course, but it was parlour tricks in comparison. When he was bored, he made small smoke dragons that danced across the ceiling, summoned berries from the forest to make paints, changed his form to a flock of crows or a storm cloud. But even dead, his father’s magic was stronger. For nigh on twelve years, two rules borne of his father’s spells had dictated his life. The first: that as long as no mortal entered the walls, he was forced to remain within the tower. The second: that the tower was protected by lethal enchantments that guaranteed it would remain that way.</p><p>Such was his conundrum.</p><p>When Cas looked into the valley far below, he saw that the little knight had drawn his sword.</p><p> “What’s he doing?” Gabe asked. He still hadn’t moved from the bed.</p><p>“Trotting towards his grave,” Cas said unhappily.</p><p>Gabe grumbled then slouched off the bed. His wings trailed behind him like two angry teenagers, but it seemed even he wasn’t immune to the allure of a grisly death. He wandered over to lean bonelessly against the opposite side of the window, careful not to touch his brother's feathers with his own. Both had brown wings, a plain colour, but Cas' were a rich dark brown, and Gabe's were tawny as an alley cat with as much attitude.</p><p>Cas reached up to pick a piece of soggy parchment from his brother’s hair. The words “<em>you bastard” </em>were written on it in angry letters. He raised an eyebrow.</p><p>Below, the knight was urging his horse past the first few rows of trees. Although Cas couldn’t see his face, he was certain that his steely eyes were examining every branch and twig for signs of danger. He had seen the routine a dozen times and the only difference Cas could see between this knight and his fallen comrades was his attire. His short-cropped brown hair was unhindered by a helmet, which was rather good for visibility but also made him more vulnerable. The more Cas squinted, the more certain he became that the knight wasn’t dressed in the manner of his predecessors. It looked as if he had forsaken heavy silver armour for lighter chainmail, and there was a strange contraption strapped to the horse’s flank.</p><p>Cas was so absorbed in examining the knight’s appearance that he failed to notice the first peril when it appeared. </p><p>The knight’s horse blustered, skittering sideways. It was a sleek black creature that spoke of fine breeding, even from Cas’ high vantage point. It was evidently intelligent, too. Only a few hundred metres into the woods, the canopy had begun to shudder. The woods were denser here, and it was difficult to see the knight and his horse through the cover of dark leaves. It hardly mattered, Cas knew the signs before the first shadow lunged from the canopy.</p><p>“Here we go,” Gabriel said. Cas pretended not to notice the eager smile on his brother’s face or the way he leant forward for a better view.</p><p>Together they watched as vines descended from the treetops. They were as thick was the limbs of a grown man and the thorns that covered them were intensely sharp, capable of cutting flesh like paper. Cas bit his lip, wondering if he should take the opportunity to turn away now. Humans were vicious creatures, but even he didn’t enjoy seeing the earth swallow the mess left behind when the woods closed in.</p><p>But there was little entertainment in the tower.</p><p>He had read every book more times than he could count, and he had painted the walls, floor and ceiling almost as much. It wasn’t as if the tower was <em> horrible </em> but sometimes, when the world was especially quiet, he could feel his father’s spells humming at the edges of his skin like a burr. On good days, he imagined that it really was a shield, protecting them. On bad days, which came more frequently than he cared to admit, he recognised the enchantments for the prison they were.</p><p>Galled, Cas tucked his chin on his knees and kept watching.</p><p>Amongst the trees, the knight pressed his heels into his horse’s flanks and urged it into a gallop, moving into a crouch on the saddle. The advantage was apparent. He could swivel more easily but, more importantly, he was a smaller target. His legs no longer hung by the horse’s flanks, tempting tendrils to reach out and yank him from his mount. Sill, vines shot whip-fast from branches, aiming for exposed flesh – human or animal - indiscriminately. As Cas watched, a particularly nimble vine tried for the horse’s belly, but the knight was quicksilver. It fell, halved, in a spray of steaming green liquid that looked uncomfortably like blood, and the horse galloped on unharmed. It hadn’t even flinched.</p><p>Cas released a breath he hasn’t known he was holding in an angry whoosh. He should be eagerly awaiting the knight’s death, not gripping the edges of the windowsill like a love-sick damsel.</p><p>“He’s good,” Cas admitted.</p><p>Beside him, Gabriel only stifled a yawn.</p><p>Cas watched with a furrowed brow as more vines were waylaid, littering the forest floor with twitching green corpses. He could feel his father’s magik radiating through the valley. Trees moved to block the knight, crashing together in wooden blockades and reaching with roots and branches to scratch at exposed flesh. At every turn, the knight and his steed sped past in a blur of black and silver. They twisted through closing gaps in bulwarks and leapt over writhing masses of tree roots. Cas found himself craning his neck, leaning dangerously far out the window in an attempt to follow their path through the thick canopy. They were almost rid of the thickest portion of the forest, which wasn’t unusual, he reminded himself. Four knights had made it to the second peril and had quickly been vanquished. The knight burst from the woods. His skin was marred with thin red scratches and his longsword was steaming, covered in acidic green blood that ate through the metal. No sooner had the horse slowed to a stop than the top of the blade snapped off and thunked into the grass, much to Gabriel’s delight.</p><p>The knight’s mouth moved to form a string of words that looked suspiciously like “<em> son of a bitch </em>.”</p><p>He tossed the remaining half of the blade at the ground where it lay steaming and melting. Cas couldn’t see how he had any chance with his only weapon destroyed. Although the trees behind the knight were quelling and the thorned vines were slithering back into the canopy, his father’s magik was swelling. He could feel it draining from the forest oaks and pines, moving instead to the swampy earth and knots of gnarled trees that surrounded the tower. Cas shivered, pulling the collar of his shirt over his chin so he could chew the fabric between his incisors. It was a nervous habit, one that meant his coveted cotton shirts were threadbare at the collar and sleeves.</p><p>The knight drew the strange wooden device from the side of his saddle. A crossbow, Cas realised as the lath snapped open and his nimble fingers began fitting the string. It couldn’t come too soon. The earth surrounding the tower was peppered with small pools of water that emitted a thick grey mist. If one stared too long at any one place, it seemed as if figures moved amongst the fog or squirmed beneath the surface of the water.</p><p>The horse stuck carefully to the grassy paths and the knight did not urge speed. They were nearer to the base of the tower and Cas had to dip his chin to keep them in sight as they made their slow progress. Their closeness meant the figure below was shown in greater detail: the tenseness of the knight’s shoulders, his olive skin and the weathered vambraces on his forearms that spoke of years of use. He wasn’t much older than Cas. Thirty, perhaps. Young in angel years.</p><p>This time Cas didn’t waste time examining the knight too closely, instead, his eyes scanned the fog for signs of the next peril. After a moment, he saw it. The fog parted to reveal an enormous black-blue boar. Its tusks were the size of small trees and its legs could part seas. It was a walking nightmare and the knight was doomed.</p><p>“Blast,” Cas mumbled, more to himself than to his brother. Then: “Quell it.”</p><p>Gabriel had moved Cas’ legs aside and was battling for space on the windowsill.</p><p>“Move your damned books,” Gabe said good-naturedly and sent a pile hurtling to the floor. They splayed open like broken birds on the stone, and Cas made a small sound in his throat as he darted down to collect them.</p><p>“Can you be less aggressive? They’re the only ones I have.”</p><p>Gabe waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll bring you some the next time I visit.”</p><p>That was an obvious lie. Gabe never bothered to bring him things, unless a wry smile and a host of wicked stories counted. With an icy look at his brother, Cas slotted the books onto the shelves where they’d be blessedly safe from carelessness.</p><p> “Oh look,” Gabriel said from across the room. “He’s dead.”</p><p>Cas strode over to the window. Sure enough, the boar had vanished, and so had the armoured warrior. All that remained was the wooden crossbow, or rather, the remains of where it lay splintered and broken on the marsh. There was movement near the trees. The horse had fled and was cantering back and forth along the edge of the forest. It cried out in a shrill whinny, once, then twice. Its flank was slick with blood, but whose, Cas couldn’t tell.</p><p>“’Right, then,” Gabriel declared, stretching his limbs lazily, like a tomcat in the sun. “I’d better be off then.”</p><p>Cas tore his gaze away from the forest and watched as Gabe slouched across the floor to the opposite window. He had seen it a hundred times, but it still staggered him when Gabriel stood on the windowsill and prepared for flight. His brown wings stretched and tensed, and the thought of them holding his brother's weight aloft sent a shiver down Cas' spine. All that empty air and no earth beneath one's feet.</p><p>“Don’t cry too long for the little knight,” Gabriel said with a backwards grin, and then he leapt through the window and was gone.</p><p>For a moment, there was nothing but stirred air and a faint, lingering warmth, like spring sun. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was sitting in the field of some faraway kingdom. Such fantasies were impractical, though, and with a repressed sense of the irony and a sharp stab in his heart, he retrieved a book from the shelf.</p><p>He was three pages from the end when there was a tremendous <em>bang </em>from the base of the tower. The sound was incomprehensible, impossible and many other <em> ibles </em>. In ensuing centuries, Cas would exclaim that he wasn’t sure how he knew, except that there was something distinctive about the door at the bottom of the tower being opened for the first time in decades.</p><p>The book fell from Cas’ fingers with a thump.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. When Knights Become Damsels</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When the sun slipped behind the hills, the wolves began their chorus in the steepled pines. Each of them had names. They were childish ones that Castiel had given them as a child of twelve still hoping the feral beasts would dash into his tower and steal him away on their backs. <em> Talon </em> , he recalled, watching a grey wolf slip between the eastern tree line. <em> Star </em> . <em> Fang </em> . <em> Bandigo </em> . They paid him no heed as they disappeared into the evergreens. Cas was surprised to feel his eyes burning just a little as he watched them. He scrubbed a hasty hand across his eyes. Now that he was grown, he knew the worst wolves hid human skin and false words. And there was a big, bad, <em> worse </em> wolf somewhere in the tower beneath his feet.</p><p>It had been half an hour since the knight had, presumably, burst into the stronghold. Cas was beginning to mistrust the gilded clock above his bed. The minutes seemed to be sliding past as slow as molasses. He kept trying excuses for the noise. <em> A gust of wind. A tree falling. A prank played by Gabriel. </em>The latter seemed the most plausible, but he doubted Gabe would interfere with his father’s magik.... even drunk on all the ale in the Isles.</p><p>Still, the question remained. If it wasn’t a tree, a gust of wind or a sibling, why hadn’t the knight sought to kill him yet?</p><p>Cas checked his makeshift barricade again. A dresser; several heavy books; a porcelain basin. It was solid, but nothing that would stop a knight. His most proficient defences lingered in his blood. He called them to his fingers: a blast of flame in one hand and a column of swirling ice in the other. Either could kill the intruder, but the uncertainly of the <em> killing </em> still worried him. Should he wait in his tower, praying the knight would decide to turn tail and leave, or should he turn the tables? The answer seemed nauseatingly clear.</p><p>Cas moved the barricade away with a wave of his hand. <em> The knight is baying for your blood </em>, he reminded himself, although his guilt dampened only slightly. The knight was only doing his sworn duty. It was the job of all knights in fairy tales to vanquish the monster, although in this case, he felt the question of who the monster was had become substantially muddled.</p><p>“Blast,” Cas swore as he pushed the door open, although he had to admit that the situation wasn’t entirely dire. He had often challenged himself to bolt up and down the steps for his father had not barred this part of the tower. He knew each stone step well, all three-hundred and fifty-six of them, and he padded downward silently, as quiet as any wolf. </p><p>He kept his magik ready, his barrier raised, but there was nothing but dust motes and streams of pale sunlight from the slitted archeres.</p><p>He had just broached the second bend when a noise caught him off guard.</p><p>At first, he couldn’t make head or tail of it, save that it was coming from the very bottom of the tower. It was barely audible, and Cas could hear it only for the faint echo as it shivered up the hollow of Crow’s keep. It was a solid moment before realisation struck.</p><p>It was a noise of pain, passing unbidden through gritted teeth. It seemed the knight had been injured before bursting through the door of the tower.</p><p>For a moment, Cas found himself hoping the knight would die all on his own. But no, he couldn’t chance even that. Humans were resilient creatures. He had heard horror stories about them having <em> whole limbs </em> ripped off and still slicing at their foes with swords and barred teeth. It was too dangerous having a human lingering about the tower, even one who was injured. The tower door was open now, and it couldn’t possibly stay that way. A mortal had entered, and who knew what havoc the mudman had played on the spells that protected the tower.</p><p>Armed with this certainty, Cas poked his head over the side of the stairwell and risked a look at the human situation sitting beside the door.</p><p>Cas had been correct. He was injured. The knight was propped up beside the door trying to bandage the wound on his abdomen. It wasn't this that Cas' eyes were most immediately drawn to, however. It was the knight's footrest, which happened to be the enormous blue-black boar from the swamp.</p><p>The creature had a bolt protruding from between its eyes and its mouth was slopped open to reveal a lolling, black tongue. It was hard to separate what might have been the boar’s blood from the knight’s, but it wasn't presumptuous to say the knight’s attempt at bandaging was not going well. His chainmail had been split open and there was a dark stain spreading across the bandage. Even from Cas’ vantage point, the tanned flesh beneath it looked ruined and uneven. The knight shifted as if to stand, and Cas vaulted back from his lookout. That wasn't right. Why should he be the scared one? The knight had burst into his tower, killed his boar and ruined his magikal enchantments. It was the knight that should be scared. He had walked into the den of a monster, after all.</p><p>With this in mind, he slipped down the stairs and rounded the last bend. He braced himself, expecting chaos.</p><p>The human’s reaction was less dramatic than he had thought.</p><p>The knight didn’t scream, didn’t recoil, didn’t raise a weapon. He simply glanced up as Cas planted his feet firmly on the stone floor, and spoke with impossible calm as he continued tightening his soaked bandage.</p><p>“’Suppose you’ve come to finish the job,” the knight said, and Cas almost flinched back when he saw a smile curl cosily at the corner of the knight’s mouth. He felt himself draw his shoulders back instinctively.</p><p>Up close, the knight was almost pretty. Beneath a spattering of blood on his tanned face, his eyes were a light green and bordered by dark lashes. Cas had never seen green that colour beyond the pages of one of his books.  <em>The Princess and the Pea</em> had an illustration of a helpless damsel with eyes like spring grass. Fortunately, she had never stared from the pages with eyes so full of vehemence. He steeled himself for what he had to do.</p><p>“Twelfth knight,” Cas boomed, “I know what your kingdom thinks of me. I see clearly <em>you </em>think the same. You with your sword and crossbow. You who holds hate in his heart for anything that doesn’t look or act like you. You’ve come to kill a monster, and so a monster I shall be.” </p><p>The knight had the grace to look suitably impressed, but the next words from his mouth were not similarly respectful.</p><p>“You’ve tried to kill me with your enchanted forest,” he said, “and you’ve succeeded with eleven of my predecessors. You’re a murderous angel just like the rest. I’d hardly say you’re making a statement with little ol’ me.”</p><p>Cas frowned at this. He suspected he had been frowning for the better half of the day. Nothing was going to plan. He spread his wings wide, curving them high and above his head. He tried again, wind whistling around the tower in the wake of his words.</p><p>“The forest was not my doing, twelfth knight, but perhaps you mud men deserved your injuries. Your people have been sent to kill me each autumn for twelve years. For no good reason, I might add. Their deaths were justified.”</p><p>The knight’s cosy smile went a little crooked, as if that particular notion hadn’t crossed his mind before. Then:</p><p>“I would prefer to be called well and true," he said imperiously.</p><p>When Cas’ expression remained blank, the knight continued.</p><p>“I’m Dean," he said. "I feel like nicknames are too familiar for my nemesis."</p><p>Cas was having a hard time following the conversation. "I'm your nemesis now?"</p><p>"You are going to try killing me? That makes you my nemesis in my books."</p><p>“<em> Try </em>to kill me,” Cas echoed, disbelievingly. “It sounds as if you think you stand a chance against an angel of the Lord.”</p><p>Dean clicked his tongue, removing his feet from the boar and struggling to his feet. </p><p>“You stopped being an angel of the Lord,” Dean said darkly, “when he cast you from Heaven. Don’t try to act all high and mighty with me, I know the lore.”<br/>
<br/>
“You should also know that it because of one angel that we were cast away. Don’t tie us all to the same stake.”</p><p>“Does that mean you won’t try to kill me? Not all angels, right?”</p><p> Dean’s gaze was testing.</p><p>“I can’t keep you alive,” he said. “You’ve made it too dangerous. It’s you who’ll be tied to the stake today, Dean.”</p><p>A ball of flame burst into being in Cas’ hand and was reflected like twins suns in the knight’s green eyes. Dean was backed against the wall like a trapped animal, but there was no fear in his stance. His eyes were all quiet fury, and his hand was clasped over his shredded abdomen like he could will the lifeforce back inside. Cas would feel a little bad when he burnt the knight’s jugular to ash. When he stepped forward, Dean’s hand fell to his side. </p><p>“You should also know,” Dean said, blandly, “that I won’t be murdered by an angel without a proper fight.”</p><p>There was a knife in Dean’s hand suddenly. It was sharp and wicked and engraved with symbols that smelt of dark magik. It was an angel blade. Cas hadn’t seen one of them in years, but he knew what it meant. Dean clasped it in his hand as he lurched over the boar. His whole demeanour had changed. His eyes were filled with hot, simmering rage. Even with the wound, he was fast.</p><p>Cas made to take a step back, but his foot caught abruptly on the step. He went down hard on the staircase. He was dead, so incredibly dead. Dean swept the knife downward, and Cas shoved at him with all he had. He hadn’t lifted a finger, but Dean jerked backward and slammed bodily against the stone wall. Both of them were motionless for several long minutes, and Cas realised that it was mostly because Dean was unconscious, and Cas was frozen in fear. </p><p>He moved one leg. Then another. He made both of them carry him right over to the tower door and close it. The sound of the door slamming shut settled him. He was safe. Safe, save for the bleeding human knight sprawled across the floor.</p><p>It would be so easy to kill him. Even a pillow across the face would work. But there were many things Cas had never done, and one of them was killing a living creature, especially one so helpless and fragile.</p><p>“Blast,” Cas groaned.</p><p>Nothing today was going as he had planned.</p><p>He crossed the floor and took the knight in his arms.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. In the Arms of the Enemy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dean Winchester, who was infrequently called “sonofabitch” or “sex god!” (sometimes in the same context), was being carried up a flight of stairs by an angel. His head lolled with each step, and his right hand was clenched impulsively in the back of the angel’s trench coat. He released it with a noise of dismay. His head felt muddled and sluggish, and he was vaguely aware of an intense pain in his abdomen. It occurred to him that he may be dreaming, or dying, or both. The whole situation felt distinctly unreal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Put me down,” he mumbled. It came out more like a question than a command.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could do that,” the angel replied, “but you’re dying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean felt a small flash of fear, but it was such a distant emotion that he had to catch and consider it to give it a name. So he was dying, and at the hands (or rather, hooves) of a boar. The damned thing had gouged him. It had knocked him from Rolet and chased him into the tower even with a bolt from the crossbow behind its eyes. His mare’s cries had echoed across the swamp as the boar keeled over to die, but Dean hadn’t been able to tell if they were noises of fear or pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Is my horse okay?” he gritted out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel’s face was all shadow as he strode up the staircase, tanned arms tight against the back of Dean’s legs and spine. For several minutes, Dean wasn’t sure he would get an answer. Then:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The horse was alive when I saw it last. Lie still, you need to conserve your energy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean released his breath in a whoosh and immediately regretted it when his abdomen seized with fresh pain. He couldn’t yet feel the brunt of it, but that was likely because of the adrenaline rather than his own pain tolerance. His limbs felt heavy and numb. Even in his vision of escaping, his legs collapsed under him. He must have lost a lot of blood. From the slickness of his shirt, it seemed he was losing more by the minute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if sensing his thoughts, the angel spoke again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re almost there,” he said. “I don’t know how resilient humans are, but try to hold on a little longer, if you can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be damned sure I’m trying,” Dean snapped back. The venom came with the sudden realisation his life was quite literally in his enemy’s hands. He let himself fall back, feigning a weakness greater than he felt. Any advantage he could get was appreciated, even if he had to pretend at damsel-in-distress (it had worked more often than one would think).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel hmphed but, thankfully, kept moving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice, Dean decided, would have been soothing if he hadn’t been a biblical monster from the old texts. Maybe Dean had hit his head harder than he thought because the angel didn’t look like any angel he had imagined, save for the wings. The fabric of his trench coat was soft against Dean’s cheek and the skin beneath it was warm. He was distinctly human-like and smelt like one too: old books and cinders and the air at night. There was also a faint smell of blood and sweat in the air, but he was quite sure that was his own aroma rather than the scent of any mystical being. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure you’re an angel?” he slurred. Even in his muddled state, the garbled words made his mind reel. He sounded bad. He sounded dying-bad. Why the angel was bothering to carry him to the peak of the tower was beyond him. He tried to remember if angels ate people. Sam was the one who usually handled that stuff, and he had warned Dean not to take this assignment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stupid princesses. Stupid quest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel remained silent as they went higher into the tower. They had travelled fro so long that Dean wondered if he could spot clouds from the windows. The view he’d had from the ground didn’t disagree. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Presently, they came to a door, and when the angel strode into it, Dean had to blink for the brightness of it. Even as a dying man, his brain registered the two windows (escape routes?) and the heavy books scattered around every surface (weapons?). The walls were covered with what looked like paintings, but the colours blurred together and Dean whined when a bolt of pain from his abdomen spiralled up his spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was this what dying was? Whining and whimpering like a kicked dog? He wished he had died with the boar. He wished the angel wasn’t about to make his intestines into Sunday soup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m usually braver than this,” Dean found himself explaining.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel ignored him, and suddenly Dean was being lowered onto the soft sheets of a bed. He had to grit his teeth to stop from screaming as the skin and muscles on his abdomen moved to accommodate the flat position. A pathetic noise of pain escaped, regardless, and Dean twisted his head to the side to avoid the angel’s inevitable snicker. It didn’t come. Instead, the angel spoke in that deep, baritone voice of his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The wound is jagged and deep,” the angel said. “It will be difficult to heal, but I think I can manage it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s eyes shot open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heal?” he echoed. The desperation in his voice made him wince.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel was standing over him, blue eyes creased with concentration. Was this some kind of trick? He wished he had a weapon, wished he could end this, ride back to the princess, see his brother again. All it would take was a stab through the angel’s heart with the dagger Sam had given him, but that was somewhere at the base of the tower.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I allowed to touch you?” the angel intoned, dipping his chin at Dean’s wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, Dean thought immediately. No, you cannot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A dozen warnings rose in Dean’s sluggish brain. Most of them were stories he had read in dusty books or overheard in equally dusty taverns. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Angels couldn’t be trusted</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Angels lie</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Angels will tear you apart with honeyed promises and divinity.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Angels are monsters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, Dean thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Dean said. “Touch me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could figure out the angel’s plan later, he reasoned to himself. He couldn’t figure out how to be un-dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel nodded and pressed a hand flat against the wound. It took all Dean had not to scream again. Maybe it was the blood loss, but the blue eyes staring down at him seemed to have taken on a firey undertone. He tried to get a better look at the monster’s face - for the base of the tower had been dark as death - but Dean’s vision blurred and stooped sideways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold still. This might twinge a little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his peripherals, Dean noticed the air around the angel’s hand glowing a soft gold, and then his focused zeroed out. Later, Dean would think to describe it as the sensation of staring into the sun too long, as one sometimes did when they were young and curious. His body felt warm and sun-baked, heat emanating and pulsing from his abdomen. He was conscious enough to have another surge of doubt. Then the angel was speaking again to reassure him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to put you to sleep for a small while,” the angel said. “You’ll wake in a few hours after your body has recovered.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean made to nod in agreement, but his head didn’t oblige. The angel seemed to understand, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, and Dean?” the deep voice said. “Since we’re nemeses, you should call me well and true, for fairnesses sake. You may address me as Castiel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean may have smiled if he wasn’t hurtling into the black of unconsciousness.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Knight's Code</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A dragon was hovering over Dean Winchester when he woke. It was straight out of a storybook: red scales, leathery wings, knowing golden eyes. It was beautiful and almost definitely a monster, and he immediately groped at the bedside table for a knife.</p><p>“Hold on, hold on,” came a voice beside him. A dark-haired palace attendant was pushing him back into the bed. Dean only spared him a momentary glance before his head thumped onto the pillows, and he was forced to stare at the dragon again. It was still red and scaly, and it was also made of acrylic paint.</p><p>“Son of a bitch,” Dean mumbled. He hoped the eye-roll had made it into his tone. He didn’t have the energy for an actual one, but, by God, he had infused it into his voice.</p><p>Sam was going to seize when he heard his older brother had been startled by a painting. Dean would have grabbed the attendant and demanded he keep the incident to his damned self, but his whole body felt heavy and sore, and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. </p><p>He tried and failed to remember where he was. It wasn’t a tavern – they didn’t usually have giant red dragons scrawled on the ceiling. It wasn't a palace either – the furnishings were too simple. It was only when a breeze shifted over Dean’s skin that he realised he could see through the window opposite the bed. Outside, distant trees and mountains laid themselves out far below. They looked as unfamiliar as the room he lay prone in, although something about the attendant niggled at his memory. He was just starting to examine the memory when his abdomen twinged with such ferocity that he swore again, loud and long and colourful. </p><p>He tried to feel for a wound, but it seemed one of his hands was tied to the headboard, so he used his other hand to grope down to feel his skin. It was smooth, tanned and unblemished. The pain had been more of a recollection than a real sensation, but then the memory of yesterday rose sharply in his mind and that was perhaps more painful than the wound itself. He had failed, just like the other knights. The jagged hole from the boar’s tusk was gone, but the angel was still very much alive.</p><p>Dean lay with one hand splayed across his hip. He sensed, rather than saw, the angel standing beside him. <em> Castiel</em>, he had said before he’d passed out. Dean didn’t turn to look at him or even try to escape his bonds. Instead, his gaze remained firmly fixed on the wall. </p><p>He felt like one of the steer he often hunted in the Wilding Woods. Before they were killed, some froze in place, as if by remaining immobile the danger would leave for want of sport. Dean liked to think he was smarter than a deer. He pulled the corner of his mouth up in a bleak imitation of a smile, yanked his gaze away from the far wall and turned to the angel.</p><p>Mostly, Castiel just looked uncertain. He was hovering over the bed like an awkward trenchcoat garbed bat who didn’t know where to put his hands. There was a small crease between his brows, and Dean was certain it’d been there since he and Rolet appeared on the horizon. Castiel likely wasn’t used to knights actually breaking into the tower (that gave Dean a belated burst of pride). More likely, though, Castiel was wondering how to get the bloodied stains out of his sheets.</p><p>Dean narrowed his eyes, and the angel stared dolefully back. </p><p>It was Castiel who cracked first, although he didn’t break eye-contact.</p><p>“You’re alive,” he said simply.</p><p>Dean pursed his lips and nodded. “Guess so,” he said and drew out the ‘so’ until it faded slowly into the air.</p><p>“I wasn’t sure if you would survive,” Castiel said, after another long moment. His voice was so gravelly that it made Dean’s own throat ache. “I’ve never tried to heal a human before. You were asleep for a long time, so long that I thought there must be something wrong with your brain. I was just checking you when you bolted upright.”</p><p>Dean’s arrogant smile got a little wilted. “There’s nothing wrong with my brain.”</p><p>“Normal humans don’t usually try to fight painted dragons, do they?”</p><p>Dean's smile vanished and his mouth grew a frown in its stead. He couldn’t tell if Castiel was joking. </p><p> “No,” he mumbled. Then, more heatedly this time: “You know, when the villagers said you would hurt me I didn’t know it would be with words.”</p><p>The angel’s face remained stone-like. He was staring at Dean in a way that made him feel distinctly seen, as if his thoughts were painted across his skin and Castiel was reading them intently. He shifted uncomfortably on the bed. He was becoming distinctly aware of the fact that beneath the bedsheets he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Castiel’s eyes flicked away as he unbraced an arm from the headboard and crossed the room. There was the vague sound of objects clattering, and Dean’s stomach bottomed out. </p><p>Of course. The most sensible thing for the angel to do was to torture Dean for information. The Southern Kingdom had been certain for years the monster in the tower would pose a threat, and it looked like they were right.</p><p>“That wasn’t a complaint,” Dean interjected, giving his tied arm a testing tug. “Hurt me with words all you want. It’s better than the alternative. Kinky, in fact. The number of girls I’ve pleased with my-”</p><p>The angel returned to place a tray of food on the bedside table. His frown-line had deepened.</p><p>Dean tried not to look too bewildered, but the angel was staring at him expectantly so Dean turned to examine the contents on the tray. It seemed to mostly be berries, fruit and nuts. He immediately discarded the berries in case they were poisonous, but that made little sense. Why would the angel go to the trouble of healing him only to feed him toxic berries? Dean pushed an apple with his forefinger. It wobbled, then righted itself.</p><p>“Is the food alright?” Castiel asked, sounding more curious than pointed.</p><p>Dean shrugged, then popped a berry into his mouth. “It’s fine.”</p><p>Castiel watched his jaw move with fascination. He leant forward, as if he meant to ask something, but shifted back hurriedly. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said instead.</p><p>Dean kept chewing. Staring straight ahead. It was obvious the angel was expecting a response. He considered remaining silent, but Dean had never been good at that.</p><p>Dean demolished another berry. “What’s the plan?”</p><p>This was clearly following a script Castiel expected, although the angel nevertheless turned self-consciously to the window.</p><p>“I lied before,” Castiel admitted.</p><p>Dean stopped chewing.</p><p>“Oh,” Cas said, as if reading his mind, “not about that, it was true what I said about not hurting you. I lied about being a monster... or, rather, being monstrous. I feel like there’s a distinction between the two." He was unnaturally still, Dean noticed. Like a statue instead of a living being. "It’s too dangerous to let you leave now, " Castiel continued. "Although I’ll keep you alive, you can’t leave this tower.”</p><p>Dean paused.</p><p>Although Dean couldn’t see them, Castiel’s eyes had gotten thoughtful. </p><p>“Once the enchantments are repaired, I will consider releasing you. The spells will be more powerful this time – no knight will be able to stumble their way in again. Not again.”</p><p>Dean briefly considered contending the use of “stumble,” but he didn’t want to aggravate the angel further. It was clear that his plan had only been thought up recently, probably when Dean was unconscious. The details still sounded uncertain, and perhaps Dean could use that to his own advantage. It was true that Castiel was powerful. He had blown Dean across a room with a glance, and the enchantments on the tower were nothing shy of incredible. He had to wonder why Castiel had bothered holing up in the tower when he could be terrorizing villages like the rest of his ilk. He pondered again why the angel had bothered to save him, and this time, he didn’t keep quiet.</p><p>“Why bother healing me?” Dean asked. He tried to keep his tone casual so he didn’t sound too probing. “I did come to kill you, after all. If you’d just left me, I would have bled out eventually.”</p><p>Cas (and Dean was bothered to find he had started using the nickname) was still gazing through the window with that troubled look that fit so easily onto his face. He didn't seem to notice Dean's fervoured look around the room for possible weapons. </p><p>“Maybe I was tired of it,” Castiel said as Dean craned his neck. “I’ve watched eleven knights die, and I didn’t enjoy any part of it. I’m tired of this game we all play, the one where knights kill monsters and monsters kill knights. Maybe we can learn from each other.”</p><p>Dean resisted the urge to snort, but the ridicule must have apparent because Cas continued:</p><p>“I’m being selfish by keeping you here, but admittedly, I also want to learn about the outside. It’s become clear that the tower isn’t foolproof-” Dean was certain he saw the angel glance at him “-and it would be practical to learn about more than the taverns that my siblings describe to me. You’re a knight. You’ve travelled all over. I gather you know a lot about the world.”</p><p>Dean didn’t know what to say to this. It was by no means what he was expecting, but he could immediately see the danger of it. Cas wanted to know mankind’s weaknesses, and he was going to use Dean to do it. Again, Dean found himself wondering how to fetch the dagger at the base of the tower.</p><p>“What makes you think I would help you?” Dean asked, giving his bonds a small yank.</p><p>This, Dean knew, was an instant mistake. Castiel turned to him, looking more certain in himself than he had in their whole acquaintance.</p><p>“I have a copy of the knight’s code on my bookshelf,” Cas said simply. "And as I’ve saved your life, you owe me one favour.”</p><p>Dean felt his insides shrivel. “That only applies to humans.” </p><p>Even as he spoke, he felt the lie of it reverberate in his throat, but he continued: “And you were the one who cast the spells that injured me.”</p><p>“Nowhere in the code does it make a distinction between humans and otherwise. And that was my father. He cast the spells.”</p><p>Dean searched around desperately for a response. “How do I know you’re not lying?”</p><p>“Would it matter if I was? I saved your life, and now you owe me.”</p><p><em> Son of a bitch </em>.</p><p><em> Fuck </em>.</p><p><em> Shit</em>.</p><p>“Is that right?” Dean said. He tried at an irritating smile, but his teeth were a little too bared to be convincing.</p><p>Cas eyed him archly from the window. “Yes, it is right. You will teach me about your world, and you won’t try to kill me until you’re done. In the meantime, I will try to reinforce the defences again.”</p><p>If Sam were here, he would have thought of some clever way out of this. But Sam wasn’t here, and so Dean nodded his head jerkily. The rope that bound his wrist slithered loose. Dean yanked his arm away warily, but the rope stayed still and so did the angel, except for the jerk of Cas’ head as he said: “Kneel.”</p><p>Dean knew what was coming now. He climbed stiffly from the bed and knelt on the floor, knees creaking from who-knew-how-long in bed.</p><p>The angel turned to look at him then. Yet again, Dean couldn’t interpret his expression or intense blue eyes, and it was making his heart thump and stutter in his chest. Or at least, he wanted to believe it was the cause of his heart’s twitching because Dean Winchester would never admit he was afraid.</p><p>Cas tilted Dean’s trembling chin upward. </p><p>“Swear to me,” he said gently.</p><p>Dean stared at him through his lashes reproachfully, but he swore the oath anyway.</p><p><em> Later, the dagger, </em> he thought. <em> Later</em>. For now, he swore his fealty to the monster in the tower and the angel who had saved his life.</p><p>Cas laid a hand on Dean’s head and spoke the words that bound them.</p><p>“I take you for now and for always, until our deal is done.”         </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. A Brief Study of an Angel Called Castiel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Here was what Dean Winchester knew about the angel Castiel: he was pretending. Dean had only been in the tower for a week, but it was so exceedingly obvious that even someone who needn’t be observant for a living could see it. There was a list of pretendings that he bulleted in his head, and they went a little like this:</p><ul>
<li>Castiel pretended to nice, kind and genial.</li>
<li>He pretended he didn’t want to kill Dean.</li>
<li>He pretended he was something more than a monster.</li>
</ul><p>Dean turned these observations over in his mind. He had time for it. Too much time, really: He had spent much of the week in bed. Although the wound had healed, the process of the healing had left Dean lethargic enough to keel over if he stood too long. And so Dean lay in bed and dozed and examined Cas through his lashes. He told himself he was gathering his strength and enough intel to kill his captor, and, gratefully, Cas didn’t hold him to their oath during those first days. He asked the occasional question about books or art, which Dean was certain was to ease him into a false sense of security. He answered the questions as cagily as he could until Cas dropped the subject. Knight’s code or not, he would do his duty. He would slay the monster.</p><p>Presently, it looked like Cas was building himself up for another question. He was perched on the window near Dean’s bed and glanced over with rounded eyes when he thought Dean wasn’t looking. Dean was playing his part, which consisted of trying to look asleep. It mustn’t have been convincing, though, because another question was launched at him.</p><p>“How many books are there in the world?”</p><p>It was such a childish, silly question that Dean forgot to keep his breathing even, and he knew the game was up.</p><p>“You know perfectly well,” Dean said, trying not to sound too irritable.</p><p>“I don’t,” Cas argued. “It tends to happen when you’ve been in a tower for practically your whole life.”</p><p>Dean rolled over to look at him distrustfully. Here was the biggest falsehood of all: the angel looked human. Cas was all olive skin and wide blue eyes. He was nothing like the sly, demonic creatures he had seen in paintings. Instead, Cas' hair was a tousled dark brown that looked as if it had never seen a hairbrush in its life, and his mouth was plump enough to make courtesans jealous. He was also wearing a stupid tan trenchcoat that added to his earthy appearance. The coat had two slits in the back for his wings, the only real hint at his heritage, and they moved constantly: ruffling, folding down, stretching out. It was the only warning the man in front of him was dangerous, could kill him with a sneeze.</p><p>“Well,” Dean said in a long-suffering tone, “there are lots of books in the world. You’d be better off asking Sam those sort of questions, he’s the bookish one.”</p><p><em> Shit </em>. He realised too late what he’d said.</p><p>“Sam?” echoed Cas.</p><p>Shit. <em> Shit </em>. “My brother.”</p><p>“He’s not a knight too?”</p><p>Casual, he needed to be casual. He couldn't reveal what Sam meant to him. <em>Distract him</em>, he thought frantically. He drew in a breath.</p><p>“He is, but it doesn’t mean he can’t read. Knights have layers.”</p><p>Cas raised an eyebrow at that. “So what’s your layer then?”</p><p>Dean finally shifted upright off the bed and leant against the headboard. <em>Distract, distract</em>. He was vaguely aware that his hair was probably a mess and he was in desperate need of a bath. </p><p>“What?” he asked. He was used banter on hunts, but usually it was the confident, mocking variety that meant both thought the other would shortly be dead.</p><p>“What’s your layer?” Cas repeated. “What are you interested in, outside of being a knight?”</p><p>Dean stared at him blankly. Outside of being a knight? The sentence stirred around his head, but even a light dusting of the far corners of his brain didn’t yield an answer.</p><p>“Why does it matter?”</p><p>Cas shifted his feet against the window sill. His back was braced against the other side, which meant one wing trailed on the floor and the other out the window.</p><p>“I want to learn, remember,” Cas prompted, his voice all gravel. “You knelt on the floor beside that bed and swore to me.”</p><p>Dean flushed. How could he forget? He needed to play this game until he could figure out a winning move or the angel fixed the tower defences, if ever. All Cas had done in the past few days was stare out the window or at Dean. He supposed they were both wondering how the hell they had gotten themselves into this situation. Pasting on his most mild expression, he tilted his face toward the angel. <em>Distract him</em>, he thought again, an idea brushing at the edges of his consciousness. </p><p>“I have lots of layers,” he announced. “And I’ll tell you all about them if you’ll grant me one thing.”</p><p>He saw the angel's expression shift. They eyed each other silently. Dean didn’t know how intimidating he looked from the rumpled sheets of the bed, but Cas was the one who spoke first.</p><p>“What do you want?”</p><p>It was barely a question, spoken with enough derision to transform itself into an insult if it had the mind. Dean huffed a laugh.</p><p>“A bath,” he said.</p><p>Cas frowned. “That’s all? I can oblige, you needn’t make it a trade.”</p><p>When Cas unfurled himself from the window and started toward him, Dean shrunk away. It was when Dean saw the golden light streaming from the angel’s hand that the panic rose in him like a wave. He blanched, scrambling backward with such ferocity that he crashed onto the floor. </p><p>Cas stopped in his tracks. “I was only going to clear away the grime.”</p><p>“You were <em> only </em>going to heal me last time,” he snapped back, hurling himself upright and keeping to the other side of the bed. The memory of Cas’ hands on his abdomen was still fresh in his mind. He liked to forget the healing had also saved his life.</p><p>“I meant with water and a tub,” he said brusquely, gesturing to the tub on the other side of the room. </p><p>The angel blinked again. “Oh. I forgot that was there. I used to like water when I was younger, my father-” he trailed off suddenly. “This isn’t a trick, is it?”</p><p>“You’re right,” Dean said, blankly. “I’m going to use the washtub to summon the Southern Kingdom to your doorstep.”</p><p>Cas shifted suspiciously, both of them eyeing each other from opposite sides of the bed. His wings were folding and unfolding unhappily, almost as if the angel was afraid of him, although the thought was ridiculous. </p><p>“Okay,” Cas said eventually, “but I’m going to have to summon water into the tub, if that’s okay.”</p><p>It unsettled Dean to know that his aversion to Cas’ magik had already been noted. </p><p>“Fine,” he grumbled.</p><p>“And I still want to hear about layers,” Cas said as he crossed the room and cleared the dust from the bathtub with a wave of his hand. Hot, soapy water bubbled and frothed in the air above the tub and began streaming into the container. Dean swallowed and huffed a laugh. </p><p>“Whatever you say, boss.”</p><p>He was laying it on a bit thick, but god, that hot water looked good. He strode over to the tub and reached for the top button on his pants.</p><p>The water pouring into the tub heaved and when he looked up, Cas’ eyes were locked onto Dean’s lower half curiously. Thankfully, Dean’s undergarments were still on. </p><p>“Hot tip,” Dean said, “humans don’t usually look at other human’s junk.”</p><p>Cas grunted, retreating to the windowsill and turning his gaze deliberately to the mountains outside. It hardly mattered, enough people had seen him naked, why not add an angel into the mix? </p><p>Groaning, Dean braced his arms against the tub and eased into the hot water with a series of noises that toed the line between pleasure and pain. The tub was only made of plain wood, but it was deep and sturdy, holding the hot water well as the aches and pains in his muscles eased. </p><p>“Is it alright?” Cas asked curiously. He was still turned deliberately away, and his voice was faint. </p><p>“It’s fine,” Dean called back grudgingly. He splashed some water on his face, scrubbing a hand through his lengthening stubble. He wouldn’t press his luck asking for a blade, but it was a good idea. He tucked it away for later and concentrated on working a lather into his skin. The angel was silent at the window, waiting patiently, and after several moments, Dean obliged with an answer to his earlier question, stupid as it may be.</p><p>“You saw me with a crossbow, right?” he asked the angel.</p><p>There was a faint hum in response. </p><p>“Well, that’s one of my layers.”</p><p>“There’s more than one?”</p><p>That was pure mockery.</p><p>“I’m a great shot,” Dean enunciated. “I also pack a punch like no-one else, I ride like a centaur, and in a bar and a bed? I’m even more skilled.”</p><p>“Modest, too,” Cas mumbled under his breath, but he still sounded curious. "All knights do those things. Even I know that. Is there anything redeeming about you? I am trying to get past the snark and violent tendencies.”</p><p>The angel certainly knew how to get under his skin. Dean scrubbed soapy water through his hair with vehemence. Who was he to question a knight? He who spent his days perched in a tower killing noble men, terrorising village folk with the sight of the crooked, black tower and doing... whatever monstrous angels did. Thankfully Cas wasn’t looking to notice the angry undertones to his expression.</p><p>“Perhaps you could take up a hobby while you’re here,” Cas said, in such a way that it was hard to tell if he were joking. “There’s a host of books here, which I’ve read enough times to recite if you’d like, and the North wall needs a fresh coat of paint. It’s been covered with the same illustrations for months. Because you’ve been outside the walls, you could perhaps give me the inspiration for something new."</p><p>Another falsehood of Cas: he pretended to enjoy painting. The interior walls of the tower were covered in his artistic attempts. He wasn’t very good. It had only been drowsiness that had fooled Dean in the Dragon Incident, but it was obvious that Cas was passionate about it. The North wall in question stretched high above the tub and was etched with wolves. Their grey coats sprawled across the walls, twisted in poses of stealth and play.</p><p>“What's the deal with the paintings?" he asked, trying to reach his back despite his aching muscles. It seemed that being gouged by a boar, healed by an angel and spending a week in bed had done a number on his body. Finally, he let his arm fall back into the gloriously hot water with a splash. "Aren't there better things to do than to slap pigment on a wall?”</p><p>Cas looked at him then, tilting his head to meet Dean’s gaze. He wasn’t angry, but curious. Like an ornithologist who was examining a strange species of bird. They were both studying each other, he recognised uncomfortably. He has a suspicious feeling that Cas was learning more about him, however. If this had been a sparring session (and Dean found most of his analogies involved sparring), he would be searching for a tactic to gain the upper hand. This was what he needed to do now, he realised.</p><p>“You’ve never painted, have you?" Cas asked, oblivious. "I suppose... I didn’t think an angel would like it either, but humans have surprising ways of passing the time. I’ve found that I enjoy this one.”</p><p>Dean grumbled but didn’t argue. “Another favour,” he asked, surprising himself with his suddenness. <em>A chance to gain the upper hand</em>. </p><p>“Can you do my back?”</p><p>He half expected another one of those curious what-the-hell-is-this-human looks, but Cas only slunk off the windowsill and shrugged off his trenchcoat. Underneath was a white dress shirt. </p><p>“So it doesn’t get wet,” Cas explained as he rolled up his sleeves. </p><p>Dean braced himself as Cas knelt beside him, already wondering if was making a mistake, but Cas’ hands were surprisingly gentle. Dean lowered his eyes like he was focused on the water, but he kept his gaze on the angel beside him. Now that the trenchcoat was gone, perhaps any physical weaknesses would become more apparent. The throat? The ribs? His gaze slid over Cas' body but found it wanting for nothing. The only physical difference he could see was those wings. They brushed against the floor with a soft <em>hush</em> as the angel worked. Cas pressed a handful of soapy water onto Dean’s back and rubbed it in slow circles. First the shoulder blades, then lower and lower down his spine. The muscles in his back unwound, and slowly the tension in his body that had pervaded him since the palace eased. Dean groaned softly. He had met many monsters that donned a human face, but none who had done it so convincingly, or who had put their hands on him so gently. Another falsehood, he reminded himself, although each time it sounded less compelling. <em>Observe</em>, he reminded himself. </p><p>“Are all angels like you?” Dean asked, leaning forward so Cas could rinse away the soap. “Do they read and paint too?”</p><p>Cas thought for a minute, hands dragging down his spine in a way that made goosebumps rise on his skin. </p><p>“No,” he said simply. </p><p>Dean didn’t ask further, because Cas pulled away, drying his hands on a towel and handing it to Dean. The moment was gone.</p><p>“Thanks,” Dean said roughly. He rinsed the soap from the rest of his skin and stood, rubbing the towel over himself. It felt strange to be clean again, and he was just about to say so when he realised the angel had been silent for some time. For a panicked moment, he wondered if he had angered him somehow through his earlier question, but when he glanced backward, the angel was looking at him contemplatively.</p><p>You know,” Cas said, “you’re not as bad as I thought you’d be.”</p><p>Dean didn’t say anything. Cas was pretending, that much he knew, but it was so convincing that he didn’t know if his own agreement would be the lie he intended or a slice of the truth. </p><p>And that scared him more than he would ever admit.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Kill Me a Monster</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean tried to kill Cas three times the following week, and the first was with a shaving knife. </p><p>Cas had known it was a bad idea when he summoned a shard of bone from the woods, but he was growing bolder with the knight. It turned out even knights were human, and humans, on the whole, were fragile. They bled and bruised at the slightest provocation (Dean had stubbed his toe on the side of the bed and howled bloody murder), and without an angel blade, they couldn't do any real harm. Giving him the makeshift knife was almost daring Dean to try. </p><p>He had watched Dean sharpen the bone into a knife for hours, casting venomous looks at the angel beneath his lashes. He had requested the knife under the pretence of shaving, but his real intentions were translucent as glass. Gabriel had often said humans were bad at subterfuge, and while Cas was no savant in the art, he could recognise it well enough, courtesy of his siblings. </p><p>For his part, he’d sat in the windowsill and watched smoke curl from the nearby villages. His wolves had returned from the hills with a sheep carcass and the humans had been riled since, no doubt sitting in their warmed meeting halls arguing. He might have been worried they would march on the tower, but they never did. If twelve knights hadn’t stood a chance, they weren’t going to risk it.</p><p>He wondered what they would think when one returned unscathed. </p><p>“I'm walking to the mirror now,” Dean said from across the room.</p><p>Cas frowned even as he nodded. Dean had begun to move more freely around the tower, but he had also developed the unfathomable habit of declaring when and where he would be moving, as if Cas was some wild animal that might startle and attack if there were any sudden shifts. He watched as Dean made a valiant show of shaving. His brown-blond stubble disappeared in the wake of smoother skin, although no doubt there would be some scratchiness left if one touched his jaw. Finally, he splashed his face with water, towelled his jaw dry and was left to hover there, tense and agitated. It was mere paces from where Cas perched, and he saw Dean eyeing the distance hungrily.</p><p>He decided to save him the trouble.</p><p>“Let me help you with that,” he had said, striding over. He felt rather than saw the way Dean’s muscles tensed in preparation for a fight. Sure enough, Dean released the towel with a wet <em>slap, </em>and the knife flashed. Cas stepped backward, the edge grazing at his shirt. Blood welled. It was a small wound, but one that gave them both pause. He was faster than Cas had anticipated, but not quite fast enough. </p><p>“Fuck,” Dean said, and tried again. </p><p>This time, the knife swept toward Cas’ throat as Dean ducked and changed directions, coming at him from the side. </p><p>It was an abundant demonstration. Cas was over it.</p><p>The knife disappeared into nothingness, but Dean collided into him nonetheless. They hit the floor hard, slamming into the stone with gasps of breath from both men. Cas shoulder throbbed, but he still managed to shove Dean backward. The knight slammed onto his back, and Cas barely avoided a punch aimed at his chin. He had ducked, and straddled the knight’s hips, wings flaring around him. </p><p>“In what world was this going to work?” Cas had asked as Dean settled enough to glare at him, teeth gritted. “That was a bone knife, not your precious angel blade.”</p><p>“It would have done the job just fine: cut your head off and allowed me to bolt back home. I’m sure even an angel would survive without a head.”</p><p>Cas wasn't sure about that either, but he pushed the thought from his mind. “By ‘bolt,’" he snapped, " do you mean you would <em> bolt </em> back to the base of the tower for the angel blade and finish the job? Or would you would <em> bolt </em>back to the Southern Kingdom and bring back an army?”</p><p>Cas had already ventured back to the base of the tower that first night to retrieve the strangely decorated knife. It was too dangerous to leave such a thing lying around, and Dean's less than subtle glances toward the stairs had proven it. Cas didn't know much, but the symbols carved on the blade had made him uneasy. He was relieved to shove it into the dually discovered bag filled with Dean's reserves of food, water and coins. </p><p>“I just want to leave,” Dean said, blinking those big green eyes innocently. “I have someone back home who’s missing me. A sweetheart.” Dean rolled his hips for effect, and Cas felt himself flush.</p><p>“All you’ve told me about the world this past week is the number of people you’ve screwed. If your sweetheart was real, I’m sure she wouldn’t miss you.”</p><p>Dean actually pouted. “Harsh words, Cas, harsh words. Besides, how do you know it’s a she?”</p><p>Cas ignored that entirely.</p><p>“It’s not a bad deal, you know,” Cas said in response.“You’ve just got to wait until I raise the defences again, then you can leave. If you’d stop scheming my murder, maybe I could get it done faster.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah?” Dean asked. “How’s that going? I’ve been watching you this past week, and so far your spells don’t seem to have been too successful. Almost makes me believe your story about your dear ol’ dad.”</p><p>Cas sighed. The conversation was going nowhere. “How about we make a deal?” he asked.</p><p>“Another one?” Dean didn’t look annoyed, just faintly amused. “Do I have to kneel again?"</p><p>“No,” Cas said. “A kiss will do.”</p><p>The look of panic on Dean’s face was worth it and Cas laughed as he stood. He kept laughing as he helped Dean to his feet, who, for his part, had the grace to look sheepish. </p><p>“Won’t try it again,” Dean had said, his mouth curving.</p><p> </p><p>o o o</p><p> </p><p>The second murder attempt had been poison. Dean had mixed together soap and several tins of paints when he (wrongly) thought Cas was distracted. If the smell hadn’t been enough to alert him, it had been the inconspicuous sneaking. Cas had watched from the corner of his eye as Dean poured the concoction into a cup. It was during one of their talks, mostly about taverns, that he pulled out the drink.</p><p>“It’s a popular human beverage,” Dean told him, doing his best to look helpful and sincere. The waver to his voice was the only hint at uncertainty, but he still did his best to look convincing. </p><p>“I’ll have some later,” Cas said serenely. It was all it took to derail the plot. </p><p>Dean had tried to feign sleep, clearly waiting until Cas was incapacitated by the poison to race downstairs. Fortunately, Dean was still drained by the healing, and when his breath finally evened, Cas tipped the mixture out the window.</p><p>He spent the rest of the night watching Dean sleep, a habit he had been trying to shake for a week. He had attempted to distract himself by being productive. He cast trivial spells of protection on the tower, summoned food and tried not to consider the possibility of leaving Crowe's Keep, but to no avail. None of them was as diverting as the human knight in his tower. Cas was, if he were to use a metaphor, rather like a canary in a cage. Some new novelty had been added to his world and he couldn't help but be wholly and entirely fascinated by it. Cas kept telling himself that, like any novelty, he would tire of the new addition. But humans were full of irrevocable mysteries, and Dean seemed to add to the intrigue with vigour.  He watched Dean each night, despite his mumbled complaints. He watched the rise and fall of his chest and the flutter of his lashes against tanned skin. Watched his pink mouth fall open and his short brown hair grow messy as he tossed and turned.</p><p>He wondered what the hell he was going to do.</p><p> </p><p>o o o</p><p> </p><p>The last murder attempt didn’t go to plan. </p><p>The day after the failed poisoning, he rapped a sleeping Dean on the head with a paintbrush. His green eyes blinked open and his mouth snapped shut.</p><p>"Ow?" he mumbled sleepily. There was a definite question mark on the end.</p><p>Cas twirled the paintbrush around his knuckles and tipped his head at the North wall.</p><p>"You promised to teach me about the world beyond the tower, so let us do some painting." </p><p>This only garnered an indignant snort.</p><p>Cas wondered if he should push further, but he had found it was best to let Dean shake off his sleepiness before making demands. He strode over to the North wall and made himself busy readying the white clay paint that would cover the old images. Sure enough, he heard Dean haul himself off the bed (Cas didn't need a bed as he didn't sleep, but even angels weren't immune to the comforts of a soft surface to lay upon). He slathered on another layer, watching the last of wolves disappear behind a curtain of white. Some of the wall crumbled beneath his brush, and Cas had frowned, wondering if he was using too much pressure</p><p>"Why is it," Dean had said with a yawn, appearing at Cas' elbow, "that whenever I wake up in this fricking tower, I'm being threatened in some way."</p><p>Cas rolled his eyes and flicked his paintbrush out in a half-hearted swipe. Dean stumbled back with a harsh noise that was almost a laugh. He managed to duck a spattering of paint but knocked his shin against the oak chest at the end of the bed. The corner of Cas' mouth curled entirely against his will.</p><p>"I didn't know paintbrushes and painted dragons were so threatening," he found himself saying.</p><p>Dean scowled at him without any real anger. "Hey," he admonished.</p><p>There was real power in that word. Used by anyone else, it was a greeting, but from Dean, it became a masculine chide. He was wondering if he should practice it himself when he found the paintbrush yanked from his hand.</p><p>Dean stood in front of the wall, tapping the handle of the paintbrush against his lower lip. He was looking at the wall like a challenge, his shoulders squared and legs planted. He was wearing one of Cas' white cotton shirts with a pair of black paints. They were significantly more frayed than Dean's bloodied attire had been, but they were coveted. His father had only deigned to leave him half a dozen items of clothing, and after twelve years their age was beginning to show. The fabric pulled thin under Dean's tense stance.</p><p>"I hope you're not planning on attacking my wall," Cas remarked.</p><p>"I'm not an imbecile," Dean said, trying to loosen his posture without success, "but it is hard to get excited about slapping around some paint."</p><p>It was true that not many people appreciated how difficult it was to make pigments or to apply it to a surface with any amount of skill. They looked at paintings and saw pleasing shapes, and they nodded their head or smiled a little at the effect of it. Perhaps it was just his siblings, who he had given up showing his paintings long ago, or perhaps it was just Cas' art, which was not... particularly good. He copied from pictures in his books or objects outside his windows. It was why his walls were covered with brambles, pines, birds and fairytale creatures. The lack of artistic inspiration was partly why he had decided Dean's purpose.</p><p>The other reason for keeping Dean in the tower was something Cas couldn't admit yet, even to himself.</p><p>"To begin with," Cas said, placing the mason jars of egg and pigment on the window seat, "tell me the best stuff first. The stories that would make a good painting."</p><p>He felt Dean look at him then. It was clear that he wasn't accustomed to being the Giver of Information.  He opened his mouth, closed it, and his gaze slid away like a forbidden thing.</p><p>"You know, my brother would have been better at this," Dean admitted, but he began anyway. If Sam could have done it better, he would have wasted his life as a knight instead of a priest, an emperor or someone who painted worlds with their tongue.</p><p>Dean sighed and said: "Cities are big, crowded and noisy as hell after a holy war. They're filled with hovels and whorehouses. The loan sharks get seedier on each corner and so do the churches. That's where they warn us about creatures like you. But best of all are the taverns. They're fricking institutions, especially for knights. There's this one place, I won't say the name, which is grimier than half the sewers. It's filled with the best people you'll ever meet. Take the owner, who makes the best damn pie and swears worse than me. I once drove off her best paying customer by challenging him to a game of cards - I needed a new saddle for Rolet - and the words that flew from her mouth could have speared a dragon."</p><p>Dean was caught in his own story, his eyes focused on something far away. Cas briefly imagined how he would depict a bar scene, but the story felt too personal. Dean was omitting names to keep these people safe, nevermind that Cas didn’t want to leave Crow’s Keep and wouldn’t want to hurt a random tavern owner besides. He supposed it worked in his favour if Dean didn’t know all that, and so he kept quiet and waited for Dean to continue.</p><p>"I know what you've been thinking about knights," Dean said, after a beat, "but just because I like some taverns doesn’t mean we’re all drunkards. The knights usually confine themselves to the palace. Each kingdom has its own, but in the Southern Kingdom its a huge stone construction with red spires, prude statues and a moat at its base. The water is swarming with merfolk who'll use your bones as toothpicks, but if you can get past 'em, the castle is draped all over with tapestries, oak furniture and oiled manservants. It’s very bourgeois. Even the royal horses have goose feather beds."</p><p>"You've been inside the palace?"</p><p>That was a stupid question, of course he had. The princess had sent him here to kill the monster-who-was-Cas and win her favour. In answer, Dean jerked his head in a nod.</p><p>Cas wondered how in love with her he was.</p><p>"My father worked for kingdoms all over," continued Dean, "so I've been inside more than one palace. The Southern Kingdom is one of the nicest of them. It's true that I've never slept on nicer beds, eaten better lamb or seen better-groomed horses, but it grows suffocating after a while. There are so many customs to abide by and eyes watching you constantly. And the number of different forks-"</p><p>He broke off with a shake of his head, and when he refocused his gaze on Cas, he realised he'd been staring. They both had.</p><p>It was Dean who looked away first.</p><p>"Is that enough?" the knight asked. "Enough to paint?"</p><p>Cas considered for a moment, frowning at the change in Dean's mood. The stories had been good, although they did omit a lot of the specific description that would have been helpful for a painting. The outside of the palace, however... Cas unscrewed the lid of the first jar. It was a dark green and a perfect colour for pine trees, an object that didn't require too much skill to illustrate. He blew a quick breath towards the wall to dry the white coating instantly and passed the jar to Dean. The knight had jumped at the display of magic but Cas talked on obliviously.</p><p>"I think I have an idea for the wall," Cas explained. "It'll be a bit different from the real thing, of course, but I suppose we're the only ones who'll be seeing it anyhow."</p><p>Dean shrugged. "A good thing too. I can't paint worth a damn."</p><p>Cas resisted the urge to react in solidarity. He had never directed anyone to paint before. He almost felt a little self-conscious about the whole thing, but considering it was a grumpy knight he was directing, the experience wasn't all bad. It <em>was</em> true that Dean wasn’t great at painting, however. His pine trees looked like a child's attempt to paint triangles with broccoli, but he had such a look of concentration on his face while painting them that Cas couldn't help but laugh. The sound sounded strange in his throat, and even the knight gave up his frown momentarily to look surprised.</p><p>While Dean was being bested by green paint, Cas busied himself with painting the Southern palace. He used red ochre for the spires and blue ultramarine for the moat, which swarmed with sharp-toothed fish people coloured with lime-white and earthy-brown pigment. The city branched around the palace, and Dean's pine forest branched around the city. Through it all was a dirt trail where Cas drew a horse and rider.</p><p>The two painters stood back to admire their work. One had green pigment smeared beneath one of his green eyes and the other had ultramarine paint pasted into his almost-black hair. Neither noticed.</p><p>"I think it's missing something," Dean said with a frown, gesturing vaguely at the left-most corner.</p><p>He swooped up the white brush suddenly and knelt to slap four white blobs in the corner. Bits of the wall crumbled beneath his brush as he added detail. Finally, he stepped back and stared proudly at the finished product.</p><p>There was a long silence.</p><p>"Ur...," Cas said. "What are they?"</p><p>Dean looked completely and utterly betrayed (perhaps a little for the dramatics of it all).</p><p>"They're your wolves!" he exclaimed proudly. "I've seen you watching them in the woods in the morning, it would be a shame for them to completely disappear off the wall."</p><p>For a moment, Cas was speechless. "Ah," he said, stumbling. "Oh... thank you, Dean."</p><p>There was another moment of heavy silence. </p><p>Dean stepped back, apparently getting a better look at the blobs in the corner. He was holding the paintbrush suspiciously like a shank, though, and Cas narrowed his eyes. Whether he would have actually attempted to stab Cas with a paintbrush was never resolved. A large chunk of the roof had unlodged itself sometime while they were painting, and according to the valiant knight's later accounts: "used some dark magik to position itself in the path of my foot."</p><p>The result was Dean falling backwards with a pained 'oof.'</p><p>Cas made a polite attempt to reach him in time to offer some support, but even an angel's reflexes couldn't stop someone mid-fall. Instead, Cas extended a hand to pick up the offending piece of ceiling. It was a decent chunk. A quick glance upwards revealed a chunk-sized hole that gave way to a sliver of blue sky.</p><p>"You really ought to hire a handyperson," Dean said, his voice sounding strangely muffled.</p><p>When Cas looked down, Dean was dragging something out from beneath the bed. Thankfully he didn't seem too bothered by his injuries (one never knew with humans), and his voice had taken on a cheerful quality. He stood with his prize held high and grinned for the first time since he had entered the tower.</p><p>"Ale," he said, swinging around a large brown flask with uncharacteristic excitement. "Cas, you've been holding out on me."</p><p>Cas cursed his stupid drunkard brother who, it seemed, had dropped the flask beneath the bed. It was a large container with enough hard-core liquid sloshing within it to thoroughly dose a human and an angel with ease.</p><p>"No," Cas began, "you're not going to even-"</p><p>But it was too late, because Dean already had the flask to his lips.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>